If There is Such a Thing as Mercy
by Melon Fuhrer
Summary: Roy Mustang is imprisoned for war crimes, waiting for one person's visit before it's too late. Contains Royai. Oneshot; complete.


**DISCLAIMER:** All recognizable material belongs to Hiromu Arakawa. In no way do I make any profit from this.

**A/N:** Just as a warning, this is not a happy fic. If you aren't looking for a downer, don't read this.

However, if you're a masochist like me, and you are looking for a sad fic, you've come to the right place (or at least I hope; I don't know, leave me a review when you finish and tell me if I succeeded in making you feel depressed). At best, I guess it could be considered bittersweet.

That said, this includes a lot of Royai, though it's not without focus on both Roy and Riza as individual characters.

Hope you enjoy it.

* * *

There's a faint smell of mold in the air, one that permeates through the cell walls and clings to his generic prison garb. The only light in the room comes from the few slits in the door that apparently pass as windows. It's chilly, a problem the now-infamous Flame Alchemist could easily remedy if he had his gloves on him. The state didn't even consider letting him keep them, though he guesses that's mainly a formality.

There are no other prisoners in this particular corridor of the pen; it's not officially solitary confinement, but it sure as hell feels like it. The only time he ever hears a sound is when the guards change shifts every twelve hours. He's thought about striking up conversation with them a few times, but he eventually decided against it. He's not looking for trouble.

After almost a week, someone higher up - probably Grumman - finally concedes. He's allowed visitors. One per day, every other day, until the end of the month. The Elric brothers come, Alphonse first. Edward makes sure to give him a good, thorough round of hell before breaking down and hugging him. He's sure that under normal circumstances it would have been a just a typical man hug instead of the full grip that it was, but that's not quite possible at the moment. He can't help but feel a little grateful.

Havoc, Armstrong, Breda, Falman, Fuery, Ross, Marcoh, Mrs. Hughes (though never Elysia), Winry Elric, May Chang, and even Olivier Armstrong come to see him. Scar doesn't, though he can imagine why. But the one person he's been waiting for hasn't come.

He begins to think maybe he imagined things. Imagined their bond, imagined their closeness. Maybe she didn't care. His heart sinks; he needs to see her, even if she doesn't need or want to see him. He would never have thought she would just leave him. Not now.

On the last day before his visiting period ends, he's forced to accept that she's not coming, that he isn't going to get to see her face again. He drowns, suffocates, in this realization.

But then he hears a gruff voice from outside his cell. "A Lieutenant-Colonel Hawkeye here to see you, Mustang."

He freezes, and then looks up. Is he becoming delusional now? Has he driven himself up the wall with his longing to see her?

The door creaks open, and a woman of average height and build steps in. Her hair is beginning to grow out again, or so he assumes, since he can see that it's pulled into some sort of ponytail. Her large brown eyes contain some sort of emotion he can't read, partially because of the obstruction the dark creates and partially because he really can't figure out what's going on in her head.

It doesn't matter though; she is just a figment of his imagination, after all.

He finds his voice after a moment of silence. "I think that if circumstances were different, they'd have me committed."

Her eyes narrow slightly. "Why is that, sir?"

"Because I know you aren't coming. It's fine; you seem real enough. I won't complain."

Her face contorts as she grasps what he's telling her. He really thinks she would abandon him. She moves a few steps closer. "Sir, I think that the prison air does not agree with you. You seem very addled."

The pain in his eyes tears through her. "If that's the case, then have I just imagined your absence throughout all of this last month?"

At this her throat begins to swell a little. "No, sir."

Her response bothers him. "Stop calling me 'sir.' I'm not your commanding officer anymore. I'm not even an officer, period."

She's silent for a long time, and suddenly he grows afraid that she's going to leave, just like that, and leave things like this between them. Afraid that maybe it's somehow his fault.

But finally she speaks up. "Why?" She whispers, her voice cracking on the lone syllable.

He hears the change in her tone. "Why what, Hawkeye?" He asks carefully.

Her eyes shoot open and she glares at him. "Why the hell are you here?" She shouts at him, finding her voice again. "I've spent the last month digging around, looking for a loophole, trying to find some way to get you out of this. And then just yesterday I find out that this was all entirely your suggestion."

His heart stops in his chest. She hadn't come because she was trying to save him? Because she hasn't accepted his fate? Because she's not ready for this?

His soldier's brain kicks itself back into gear. "They can't afford to replace half the military, Lieutenant-Colonel. I'm an example, a symbol. I thought it best that no one else should have to pay. Statistically, my alchemy was responsible for the most amount of damage compared to every other soldier's actions." He pauses. "The Hero of Ishval getting thrown in line for the firing squad was enough to satisfy the country."

At this, she finally breaks. Tears, though not a large number by anyone else's standards, roll down her pale face. She sinks down to her knees in front of him, and he clumsily lowers himself from his cot onto the ground as well.

"Please understand, I'm trying to spare everyone else who fought in Ishval. I'm trying to spare you," he confesses quietly.

"We were supposed to go down together," she reminds him, anger lining her words. "This fate was meant to be ours to share. I was never prepared to let you walk this alone." Sadness, now. That's all he hears in her. He supposes that's all she has left in her. It's certainly all he can comprehend right now.

He abruptly changes the subject. "Do you remember the Promised Day?" he asks her, like it's even a question. She doesn't need to respond; one pain-filled glance is enough. "When the gold-toothed doctor sliced you open, and you fell into a puddle of your own blood, I was more terrified than I've ever been in my life. I thought- no, I knew I was going to lose you. There wasn't any doubt about that in my mind at the time. Do you know that I can't even remember clearly everything that happened between that moment and when I was finally at your side? That's how horrified I felt. You were going to leave me, and nothing would have been okay after that. I would have performed human transmutation on you - even knowing it wouldn't work - even knowing it could maim or kill me - even knowing I would become the fifth sacrifice. I would have done it anyway, for you. I was that desperate," he says bluntly. Now wasn't the time for mincing words. "And when the little girl from Xing saved you, and I held you again, I realized that I couldn't ever go through that again. _I cannot lose you_."

Her tears come even faster now, and she has trouble speaking through her sobs. Normally she holds back such emotion, but she knows there's no reason for the restraint anymore. She is painfully aware of the fact that this is the last conversation they'll ever have.

"Then why the hell are you making _me_ go through this? Do you remember the night Lust told me she'd killed you? Do you really expect me to live through that again? You can't leave me. Dammit, Roy, I love you," she confesses to him, looking into his dark eyes with her own red-rimmed ones.

She said it. Words that have always been true – in her father's manor, in Ishval, throughout their entire military career. Words that neither of them has dared say so long as they've ever known each other. She realizes it doesn't matter anymore; there's no reason to pretend it isn't true.

Roy's mouth falls slightly agape as her admission registers, though he composes himself. His forehead leans to rest against hers, as it's the only way he can touch her since his wrists are cuffed behind his back. "I love you, Riza," he whispers gently. "More than you'll ever know."

He's not sure who initiates it, but again, it doesn't matter. They pull each other into a kiss, hard and desperate and sad and filled with so many regrets. Her violently shaking arms clutch his body to her. He leans into her, angry that it's all he can do. Her lips taste of salt from her tears, and this is what finally breaks him. It takes him a moment to realize she's tasting salt on him, too.

He breaks away from her, her eyes still closed for a moment after he pulls away. He shifts onto his knees, stretching his arms down as far as they'll possibly go and then some, until finally the chains scrape the seat of his pants and slide down. He quickly changes positions again so that he's sitting on his butt with his feet flat on the floor. Leaning forward, he slides his wrists under his feet so that finally, he has some use of his arms.

The moment they're free, he pulls Riza into him, his hands gripping the fabric of her jacket, holding her so tightly that they both feel that they've become a single person. He can feel a growing wet spot on his shirt where her head rests in the crook of his neck. He holds the back of her head protectively and cries with her.

Eventually, when they run out of tears, Roy pulls her back just enough to look her in the eye. "Can I ask you something?"

She nods mutely.

He pauses, unsure of how to start. "I'm at peace with myself, Riza… This may not be how I've always dreamed of helping my country, but my sentence proves that our government has learned to see right from wrong. It proves that we can move forward as a nation.

"But I still wish to make absolutely sure Amestris is in good hands. What I want to ask you is… will you become Fuhrer? Will you protect our country, as you've always protected me?"

"I failed on that point," she automatically reminds him, her voice hollow. She doesn't even seem to have registered his question.

This doesn't escape his notice. "You're not listening to me, Riza. You have to stay strong," he reminds her. "Work your way up through the ranks. Take Grumman's seat when he leaves it. Make sure we don't fall back into those dark days. Make sure the next generation never has to go through what we survived. Can you do that for me?"

"Is that an order, sir?" She asks. Despite the fact that she knows full well he's no longer her superior, it's not joking, not playful like it should be. It's despairing, almost empty. It's a question of _do I really have to continue on without you_, of _are you really leaving me all alone_.

He knows he's going to break her heart with his next words, but he has no choice.

"Consider it my last request."

* * *

Riza is there the next day. She sees they've dressed him in his old uniform, though he's been dishonorably discharged from the military. They even made him wear that horrible white overcoat that they'd all worn in Ishval, one Riza is sure can't be his because he burned it to a crisp the day he returned home from war. She guesses that this is to make it more theatrical, more symbolic in the eyes of the people.

No one outside Fuhrer Grumman and herself know that Roy was the one to suggest his own trial and sentencing; the country believes his fate was always entirely in the hands of the government. Not even their closest friends, the Elric brothers included, were allowed to know. Apparently it was also Roy's idea to keep it a secret. He doesn't want to look like a martyr - dying for his country. She knows he damn well doesn't see himself as one.

His eyes roam the crowds. It's a very public execution, and she can tell he hopes to see at least one familiar face before his eyes are closed forever. She already knows that anyone he's close to in the military is there - every active soldier's presence is required - but they've all likely positioned themselves so as not to have to watch.

Which is why she's in the front line, willing to sacrifice some measure of sanity to give him comfort in his last moments. She knows she'll never sleep soundly again, though she's already scarred enough that the nights where she does are few and far in between. But it matters not, because he needs her, and it has been her job since the age of twenty to be there for him when he needs her.

Hell, who is she even kidding? She took on that role the day she met him.

When his eyes finally meet hers, they widen, and he holds her gaze throughout the entire procession. Somehow the military has gathered quite the extensive list of the damages he performed in Ishval, as well as the names of most of the citizens he killed there. She knows there are a few whose names could not be traced, though there isn't an ounce of doubt in her mind that he can recount each and every one of their faces. She knows for a fact that she'd never forget her own victims if she lived a thousand years.

Soon, too soon, they've reached the end of the list of his charges. A man proclaims to the world that Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist, the Hero of Ishval, is hereby sentenced to death by firing squad. The assigned soldiers, new recruits with zero ties to the Ishvalan War of Extermination, lift their weapons, waiting for the signal.

The world stops and freezes and Riza's eyes shoot out of her head her heart constricts her muscles lock and there's nothing to see but his black eyes black as the hole he'll soon be buried in she can't breathe she's not ready and suddenly she's the one tied to the post the guns are pointed at her she's staring down the barrel of death the sets of eyes on her are ice and she's not ready she's not ready _she's not ready_ and there's a dozen loud bangs and there is nothing.

* * *

They wait to bury him until she's recovered. After her fainting spell, she's on suicide watch for the next three days in the hospital, though this is entirely on Grumman's order, as she hasn't made an actual attempt on her life.

Yet.

* * *

His burial, as opposed to his execution, is a very private affair. They lay his headstone down in a remote cemetery in a random corner of Amestris where other death-row criminals are buried.

His body, however, is laid to rest next to his best friend, Maes Hughes. This is done in secret, and no traces of a grave are left to the untrained eye, for the nation would have a fit if it was known that he was allowed burial beside someone greatly respected in the military.

This is all they can give him.

She doesn't leave him that night.

* * *

Years pass, and she has found the strength to stand again. She watches the Elrics' children grow; she watches Gracia Hughes raise her daughter to be a wonderful young woman; she watches Ling Yao become a great ruler with many children of his own, some of them rumored to belong to his pretty bodyguard; she watches Izumi Curtis adopt a child from Ishval. They all serve as reminders as to why she must push herself onwards. So that these children never have to know what it is to have bloodstained hands. They should never have to understand how it feels to point a gun at the person who took everything from them. They should never have to experience a fallen comrade, a close friend lowered into the ground, a lover, a _partner_'s life stolen before one's eyes.

* * *

She progresses through the ranks quickly, with all of her men behind her a hundred and ten percent. They realize fairly quickly how far she could have gotten if she had not insisted on staying beneath Mustang, but none of them dare voice this to her.

Surprisingly, even Olivier Armstrong lends her support. She would have thought for sure the intimidating woman would have aimed for the positon herself.

None of them doubt she'll make it to the highest rank before Grumman dies, as he's made it clear he's not retiring. Riza can't help but feel he's just waiting for her to catch up so he can be at peace.

* * *

The citizens of Amestris gather to watch. One week ago, beloved Fuhrer Grumman passed in his sleep, his will stating his wishes to leave his seat to one General Riza Hawkeye. Of course, this was decided democratically, but no one posed serious opposition to her. The vote was nearly unanimous.

Her uniform is heavily decorated, her back ramrod straight, her stiff upper lip no longer forced but merely a part of who she is. It still feels odd not to salute during a ceremony such as this, but there is no longer anyone above her to show subordination to. She is the ruler of this country now, or she will be in five minutes when her title is officially announced.

She scans the masses, _her_ masses. She picks out many familiar faces, every one of them elated and proud of her. Her large makeshift family is there to cheer her on.

Her gaze freezes on a pair of jet-black pupils. She knows they're not really there, in a detached sort of way. She's seen them every day since _that_ _day_. But today they send a surge of anger through her.

Why the hell does her 'family' deserve to be there for her when they weren't there for him?

Why does she even deserve to be here? She is just as sullied as the man whose body was riddled with bullets in this same courtyard years before.

_We humans are such pathetic, miserable creatures._

This is the first thought to pass through the newly inaugurated Fuhrer Riza Hawkeye's head.

* * *

More years pass, and the Fuhrer dutifully presides over the State Alchemist program. Any kind of research on human transmutation, the creation of chimeras, and anything remotely related to the word homunculus is strictly forbidden under penalty of hard time in prison. She knows it's a tough law, but she cannot afford to let history repeat itself.

Many political conflicts arise between Amestris and the surrounding nations, though Riza can proudly say that not one of them have led to a physical altercation. Of course, she can't take all the credit; the newly allied Xing provides enough of a threat that their neighbors don't want to seriously consider battling them. Riza is really just grateful that she doesn't have to send any more sons and daughters to the battlefield.

She makes many public appearances, though a full armada of bodyguards always surrounds her. She does her best to lead a quiet private life, though the fact that she never marries (and has never expressed any amount of interest in doing so) leads to whispers questioning her sexuality. Indeed, there has never been a female Fuhrer before, and her cropped hair does nothing but stereotype her in the eyes of the public where that is concerned. She can't find it within herself to care, though. People will talk, and she knows that. Besides, a belief that she has eyes for the same sex is one she'll gladly take any day over the country finding out the truth. She can't risk the public knowing that she has feelings for her superior officer.

* * *

She lives out the remainder of her life in relative silence. She doesn't plan on making it as long as her grandfather did; living to her sixties is about as much as she can take. Amelia Havoc, Jean and Rebecca's daughter, aspires to be the next ruler, and Hawkeye would gladly give the woman the position, if it was her choice to make. She has never felt completely comfortable with the fact that Grumman basically named her his successor; she wanted the next Fuhrer not to have any explicit support or favoritism from the former. She wants it to be completely in the hands of the people. Unlike the last inauguration, the candidate has a competitor – a relative unknown, a man named Daniel Welch. Riza doesn't count him out of the running, despite the fact that not many have heard of him. After all, she lived in the background of the military until just a year or two before being handed her current title.

She does not live to find out who succeeds her. She crawls into bed one night, somehow knowing she wouldn't have to wake up this time. Picking up the old familiar photo on her bedside table – the one placed behind the picture of her mother in the frame, just to ease her own paranoia – she strokes the face printed on it nostalgically. In her old age, she is beginning to lose the details, something she never wanted to happen. She studies it carefully, hoping against hope she'd be reunited with it soon, if there is such a thing as mercy for people like him, for people like her.

She doesn't put the photo back tonight, but rather holds it as she lays down and turns the lamp off. Her wrinkled eyes drift shut, and as she breathes out, a question escapes her lips.

"_Have I made you proud, sir?"_


End file.
